


Seven Days of Christmas

by misura



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the first day of Christmas, my mafia boyfriend gave to me - (Harry/Marcone, stocking stuffer)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Days of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for everysecondtues

 

 

On the first day of Christmas, my mafia-boyfriend gave to me ... well. 

"You certainly have some ... interesting decorations, Harry," he said, not quite surveying my office as if he owned it (presumably, when you're a crime boss as opposed to, say, a hard-working, law-abiding wizard, you can actually afford to spend money on making your office look nice) but coming close enough to put me on edge. "They're very ... unique."

They probably were, given how and where I'd come by them, which is a story better left for some other time. I saw no reason to share it with Marcone. He knew too much about me already.

"What do you want, John?" I asked. He still didn't like me using his first name - or maybe he just didn't like the way I made it sound. Given that most of the time, I didn't like the way he made _my_ name sound either, I supposed that meant we were even. More or less.

"I simply happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Right." If Marcone's business regularly brought him to my neighborhood, perhaps I ought to consider moving elsewhere, hard as it would be to find another place as well-suited to my needs. For the moment though, I chose to believe that he was applying a rather liberal definition of 'neighborhood' - or, less nicely put, that he was lying. Which meant he'd interrupted his busy schedule just to come and criticize my holiday decorations. Golly. Lucky me.

"You don't even have a tree in here."

"I don't need one." Given a choice between having dinner and getting a tree, I'd pick dinner any time.

Marcone sighed, as if I'd disappointed him.

"And I'm actually at work here," I added pointedly.

He took the hint. I was surprised.

I was even more surprised when Mr Hendricks walked into my office the next day.

*

On the second day of Christmas, my mafia boyfriend gave to me a bodyguard, accompanied by several men wearing large boxes. That last should have been a clue, but it was early morning still, and I wasn't as awake as I might have been.

"What - " I started to ask, when one of the boxes was opened.

After that, it was a scramble to save my poor old decorations from ending up in the trash.

Some people have got neither taste nor any respect for things of age.

*

On the third day, they brought the tree.

"I don't need a tree!" I told the deliveryman. "I didn't ask for a tree!"

He was holding one of those clipboards delivery-people all around the world seem to be carrying with them in order to ask people for their signatures. 

I resolved not to sign for the tree.

He never even asked. Or looked at me. Or paid any attention to what I was saying. He just stood around as some other people carried in the tree, placed it in a corner and put on some decorations. They matched the ones already there. Of course.

It was, I couldn't but agree, a very nice tree. Perfect size, and it filled my office with the scent of firs.

Next time I saw Marcone, I was going to tell him what he could do with his decorations and his tree.

*

On the fourth day, Marcone called me and I didn't pick up the phone. Instead, I went talking to Bob.

"Do you think it's wrong for me to keep decorations in my office that were paid for by my boyfriend?" I asked. Much as it galled me to admit it, my office did look very Christmas-like right now, and I kind of liked it.

"Only if he asked you to pay him back in sexual favors," said Bob. "In which case: can I watch?"

"I almost never got to celebrate a normal Christmas." Not since I'd stayed with Ebenezar, as a kid, and, as with all my memories of that time, those, too, I had some rather mixed feelings about.

"You, me and a good movie. Sounds like a plan to me."

"I wish Murph wasn't off somewhere with Kincaid again."

"There's this place only a few blocks away - they've got all kinds of great stuff."

"Why couldn't I have had some more normal friends? People I can talk to? Why does my social life have to be such a mess? I mean, a sex-vampire and a mafia-boss? What's _wrong_ with me?"

"Aside from the obvious," replied Bob, "perhaps it would help if you spent less time hiding out in your basement and talking to a skull. Besides, you think _your_ social life is bad? What about _mine_? Speaking of which ... "

*

On the fifth day, Marcone called again. I took the call this time.

He asked how I liked the decorations.

I said he should have saved himself the expense.

He tut-tutted at me and asked how I liked the tree.

I said he should have saved himself the trouble.

He told me I was being ungraceful.

I told him I was sure he was right and hung up.

(The thing is: I'm a romantic at heart.)

*

On the sixth day, I paid what I felt to be an outrageous amount of money for a sprig of mistletoe and then spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding where to put it. I didn't expect any clients, but one never knew, and I didn't want to scare them off by hanging the mistletoe directly above the door. Or over my desk. Or any other place where it might be noticed by someone other than Marcone.

My bedroom might work, except that it wouldn't - because by the time we got there, there'd already be kissing going on, which would make hanging the mistletoe there rather pointless.

I decided I needed either help or a distraction and called Marcone.

He picked up after the second ring. "Good evening, Harry."

"Do you have any plans for Christmas?" He probably had and they might include me, but it seemed impolite to assume.

"Nothing definite yet. Would you like to have dinner with me?"

"Tonight?" It was nearly eight already, although I hadn't eaten yet.

"At Christmas. I should hope that this evening, you've enjoyed one already."

"Sure." Next, no doubt, he'd want to know if it had included vegetables.

"Harry ..."

"I was getting around to it." Some days, I wasn't sure which worried me more: that being in a relationship with Marcone had me lying rather more often than I liked to think I used to, or that nine times out of ten, he seemed to know when I did it. My own record wasn't nearly as impressive.

"Make sure that you do."

His voice implied that if I failed to fulfill this task, he'd know about it and, regrettably, be forced to take certain measures which unfortunately might inconvenience me.

For someone who'd supposedly taken such an interest in my good health, Marcone was very good at annoying me. I think love should make people be nice to another and make them get along, but of course, I've been wrong before about these kinds of things.

"Dinner for two at my place?" I proposed. I wasn't making a peace-offering or changing the subject; I was simply getting on with the conversation. Or so I told myself.

"No offense, Harry, but your place is a little ... well." Well, indeed.

"You spent a lot of time and money getting it all decked out for Christmas and now you're telling me you want me to spend Christmas somewhere else?"

I expected him to say something about how a considerably larger amount of time and money had been spent on decking the halls of the Villa Marcone - not, naturally, that he didn't value my apartment, only there was quite simply less of it.

"You didn't seem very happy about the way things looked last time we spoke."

"Ah." He had me there.

"I can ask the decorators to come and restore your apartment to its previous appearance the day after Christmas," he said, "but they might be able to work more quickly when you're not around."

"So you're actually inviting me for dinner and a sleep-over." I wondered if the guy with the clipboard had complained about me.

"If that's what you want to call it." He sounded amused.

"It is."

"As you wish. I will look forwards to it."

*

And what I did on the seventh day of Christmas really is none of your business, although I suppose there's no harm in telling you it did involve dinner at some point. 

 


End file.
